


Rainy Days & Freckled Smiles

by Azar443



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-07
Updated: 2017-06-07
Packaged: 2018-11-10 05:13:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11120640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Azar443/pseuds/Azar443
Summary: Percival’s always loved the rain; he loves the thrum of the air as thunder rolls and lightning ripping through the skies.





	Rainy Days & Freckled Smiles

There are many things people don’t know about Percival Graves, outside of work. Certainly, they see his handsome visage staring grimly out from the newspapers and they comment admiringly about how lucky wizarding America is to have such a dashing protector. His subordinates know he expects effort and hard work from them, and Seraphina Picquery knows his favourite colour is green. Queenie Goldstein knows he sometimes wishes he had a pet, but his landlord won’t allow pets in the apartment building, and Tina knows his is the steadily flickering light that burns in MACUSA throughout the night. But beyond that, no one quite knows the man. They would argue with you of course, if you told them they knew not one whit about the man who led them, but ask for any bit of information about the man and they’ll come up dry. They’ll stammer and hmm and haw and they’ll mutter something about being busy, but the next time they see their Director, they listen more carefully and watch closer to see if they can somehow deduce something of the man behind the authority figure they’ve always thought to be larger than life.

New York’s going through a particularly wet period, and everyone’s stomping around in boots and holding umbrellas and grumbling about the poor weather to everyone who’ll listen. The skies are greyer and people’s moods are fouler, and New York has never seemed even more New York than then. The Department of Magical Security is quiet, windows tapping with the fall of rain, and every now and then, someone yawns and it spreads. There’s not much work going on; Abernathy’s flicking rolled bits of paper at Moira Garths who’s glaring lethargically at him, Tina’s staring at the clock on the wall, trying to will Time to hasten. Jacobs is showing Cavendish pictures of his new kitten, and everyone is doing anything _but_ work. There’s only the _tick-tick-ticking_ of that infernally slow clock, as if mocking the full _In_ and empty _Out_ trays and the twitching of de-enchanted mice memos scattered on desks.

Percival Graves’ office is guarded by heavy wooden doors that creak and moan lowly whenever someone pushes them open. The floors are clad in burgundy carpeting, and the mahogany desk sitting smack middle of the room is organised and tidy, devoid of any personal artefacts that might hint at the man who sits there. The shelves are filled with books and little trinkets, mementoes from previous skirmishes and awards given by appreciative government officials. The drawers adorning the desk are gilded in golden edges and locked, and in one of those drawers, there’s a feather taken from the majestic body of a Thunderbird named Frank, and there’s a worn diary filled with writing that progresses from messy to neat cursive lettering. No one’s ever seen these items, so of course they wouldn’t have known that these are fairly new additions to the elsewise unremarkable desk.

Said man whose desk it belongs to is standing near the large windows of his office, head leaning against the cool glass as he hums along to the wordless music of the rain. Percival’s always loved the rain; he loves the thrum of the air as thunder rolls and lightning ripping through the skies, he loves the comfort of warm blankets and cold feet and dark, cool rooms on rainy days, he loves the feel of chapped lips on necks and faces and every imaginable surface whilst entwining together in bed. When the thunder roars he feels his heart soar and sing and be as free as he could not be. Rain has always been the constant solace in his life, and it brings out in him a softness and romanticism that makes the lines crinkling around the edges of his eyes smoother, and the corners of his mouth upturned and his eyes wider with wonderment and the innocence he’s lost. He’s spent many rainy days in his life, whether alone or cuddling up to someone he’s loved, and people have come and gone, and seasons have passed but his love for rain has never wavered.

There’s a warmth in his belly as he traces a vaguely animalistic shape on the fogged window, and there’s a spark and then he’s moving, limbs fluid and coat billowing as he snatches up his fedora and briefcase and sweeps out of the now darkened office. His people are startled out of their state of torpor, and they scramble to grab at pens and flying pieces of paper and Abernathy chokes on the piece of gum he’s been obnoxiously chewing on. They stop though, when they glimpse the glint of excitement in their boss’s eyes, and Percival orders them, gently, softly, un-Mr Graves like, to pack up and go home. He’s amused at how they grab at coats and bags and personal belongings even as they glance about each other, bewildered at his unexpected leniency. Feeling somewhat cheeky, inspired by the flash of freckles and lopsided grins, he further confuses them when he smiles genially at them, and his people are staring in alarm at the ripple of black as he disappears through the doorway. Jacobs wonders if he might be unwell, and Moira rolls her eyes and whacks him on the back of his head. Tina wonders when the two will ever get together, because only a blind wizard could see he’s sweet on her.

When Percival stops spinning and divests himself of his outer layer, he’s greeted by a warm fire and the smell of cinnamon through the apartment. There’s a slight smile that speaks of resplendent joy on his lips, and he makes his way to the linen cupboard, bringing out freshly dried blankets and moving them to the bedroom. He’s bundling the blankets into something that’s akin to a fort when he hears the soft thumps of footsteps and the smell of spiced cider and fresh grass is invading his sense of smell. Warm arms sinewy from work wrap around his neck, and there’s someone blowing soft air on his neck. Percival turns and meets the forest green eyes of his love, and they’re sitting in bed with hot cider and warm hearts and cold feet touching, curled tightly in winding sheets and tangling limbs, and Percival finds himself falling all over in love with rain and the man who awkwardly stumbles his way into his heart. The rain beats a steady tattoo on the windows, and their lips meet as their hearts beat in tandem, and pitter-patter is the sound Percival thinks of when he’s asked to describe love, and Newt Scamander. 


End file.
